


you do not have to be good.

by coffeesuperhero



Series: simple machines [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer's Cooking, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Queer Themes, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: Come hell or high water, Eliot is going to figure this out.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Series: simple machines [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889917
Comments: 87
Kudos: 409





	you do not have to be good.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Wild Geese," by Mary Oliver.

If someone had told Eliot the day he got hired for a walkaway, one-and-done job for Victor Dubenich that within five years not only would he not have walked away, but that he would have basically promised himself for life to two of those people in a _for better or worse, 'til death do us part_ kind of way, he would have punched that person square in the mouth. And probably a lot of other places. The point is, that person would still be in pain five years on. 

That person would also have been right, though. 

It takes a while for him to have the space in his head to notice that the way he cares about Hardison and Parker is not exactly what he thought it was. It's not just loyalty, a similar flavor of the _brothers-in-arms_ camaraderie he felt in the military. It is that, but it's also love. He knows that much before they ever go after Moreau, because there's Hardison, overselling the damn grift and nearly getting killed for it, and there's him, doing exactly what he said he wouldn't and bailing him out. And there's Parker, crying over some piece of shit television psychic, and there's him, offering to do something he doesn't do anymore, just because the guy made her sad. They are weird as hell sometimes and they like shit that he doesn't like and they baffle and confuse him, but they also make him laugh, and they make him proud, and he loves them. Like they're family. Because that's what they are. And if he ever feels different, he ignores it, because he just does not have time to open that particular Pandora's box. 

But after San Lorenzo, he's got space in his brain again, a freedom to think and feel that he didn't even know was missing before. He trudges up a mountain with Parker and tells her that it's okay that they do the hard things, knowing full well that some things are too hard even for him, because if it was her, or Hardison, Eliot would probably never walk back down that mountain either. They pull Hardison out of a grave a few months later and that pretty much seals it for him, standing there with his face pressed against Hardison's neck, saying, "Never do that again, man. Don't do that again," and Hardison holding on tight and saying he won't. And that's it, he's done. He loves these people. Is in love, maybe, with these people. But they're in love with each other, and they still have a chance to make something good together, so he gives Hardison advice, he buys Parker a cactus. He helps them be happy, from a distance, because that's the only way he can. 

And then they leave Boston, and he realizes that maybe he's missed something, because there seems to be a whole lotta shit in Portland with his name on it, and none of it is asking him to be distant. 

The biggest thing, at least physically, is that Hardison seems to have bought him a brewery. Sure, it's Hardison's alias on the lease, and Hardison who signs the checks and hires the staff, but after a few months it's clear that it's Eliot's menu, and Eliot's work sourcing the ingredients from local farms and ranches and fishermen, and Eliot's knives in the kitchen. 

And there's other shit, too, all over the apartment that Parker and Hardison share. The heavy bag hanging downstairs. The chef's kitchen. The empty garage in the basement. The spacious but sparsely appointed guest bedroom down the hall from theirs that only contains a bed, a couple of lamps, a desk, an empty display case, and a very nice vintage Martin acoustic that Hardison swore up and down, the day Eliot noticed it, was _purely decorative, my man, but if you ever feel like playing it, go right ahead_. 

As cons go, it's typical Hardison-- too loud, too noticeable, no way in hell any mark is gonna fall for that shit the way you want them to. But here Eliot's dumb ass is, right in the middle of the long con, a whole year in and just now noticing that the display case in that supposedly spare room is custom made and looks damn near perfect for a sword-- like say, a Hanzō?-- the brewery staff always talk to him and not Hardison or Parker about the menu for the week, the garage space is as empty as the day he first walked in but would definitely comfortably fit both of his vehicles, and he's never seen another soul even look at that heavy bag. 

It's basically a damn advertisement. _Wanted: one hitter. Must love: martial arts, culinary arts, cars, guitars, a tall genius hacker, and a small mischievous thief._

He doesn't know what the hell he's doing, but he does fit the bill. So, he picks a night when they don't have anything else to do, shows up at the apartment with a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries, makes them dinner, and asks about the apparent vacancy. 

Hardison and Parker share a look that says they're glad he finally decided to show up to the party, whatever the party is, even if he's more than fashionably late. They talk. They mutually agree that none of them really know what they're doing. That this is uncharted territory. That this is pretty goddamn terrifying but also pretty fucking good. And most importantly, whatever's happening, it's happening to all of them, together. 

"So...maybe we just agree that things are changing," Parker suggests, holding up her beer. 

"As long as we change together, I'm cool," Hardison says, picking up his bottle, too. 

"For better or worse," Eliot adds. 

They clink beer bottles, they smile at each other, and they agree that they can slow walk this for a while, no reason to be in a hurry when they're all in whatever this is for the long haul. They all sleep in the same bed that night. Nothing much happens except a lot of hand-holding and holding each other, but it's the fastest he's ever fallen asleep and the best way he's ever woken up. 

Not a bad start. 

+  
They go save the world. It's just the three of them against the certainty of one hundred and fifty million deaths, but there is not a single moment where he's afraid of that reality coming to pass. Some bullets and a lot of bandages later, they find themselves back in Portland. Eliot convalesces at their place, posted up on the couch with his leg propped up on a pile of cushions. He's barely been back to his own apartment in weeks, and he doesn't really miss it. 

"I'm going to have coffee," Parker announces. "Amy invited me. My friend, Amy." 

"We know Amy," Hardison reminds her. "I hired her. Eliot works with her in the restaurant." 

"I just like calling her my friend," Parker says, bending to kiss Hardison before she leaves. 

"Maybe get decaf," Eliot advises, sharing a look with Hardison, because the last time she went out with Amy for coffee she ordered a triple espresso and quite literally climbed the walls. 

Parker kisses him, too, before she goes, just a quick peck but right on the lips. 

"What was that for?" he asks. He doesn't really mean to, it just pops out. 

"For luck," she shrugs. "I didn't want you to feel left out just because you were on the other side of the train." 

And with that, she's off. 

"She didn't have to do that," he says, frowning. 

"Parker usually kisses me before she goes somewhere," Hardison says. "Maybe you don't know this, but it's kind of a thing that people do when they're in a relationship." 

"Shut up, I'm just-- I'm not trying to make it weird," he says, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, and not just because he has bullet holes in his leg and shoulder. 

"Make it wei-- you know, if we're doing this, you've gotta stop thinking of this as me and Parker's relationship," Hardison sighs. "Because if we're doing this, it's yours, too." 

"Easier said, Hardison, and it _is_ your relationship." 

"We rolled out the welcome mat pretty clearly, my man," Hardison says, eyebrows raised in a way that plainly says, _Hey, dumbass, I have held you in my arms while you slept, so go sell that bullshit somewhere else._

"Yeah, I know," he sighs. "It's just-- I don't know what it is. I guess maybe I thought this would be easier." 

He knows this conversation is about to get real, because Hardison actually sets down the video game controller and turns to face him. He appreciates the warning, but he's still not actually prepared for what Hardison is about to say, because what Hardison says, actually, is, "Look, I think maybe you're not going to say it, so I'll do it: are you dragging your feet on this because of me? Because I'm a man?" 

"What? I-- no!" Eliot insists, a little too hotly, and Hardison just stares like he knows and jesus, it's Hardison, who is a genius, and who knows him, so he probably does. His cheeks burn, and so does his shoulder when he moves to cross his arms over his chest as he confesses, "It's not my first rodeo, Hardison." 

And it isn't, in many ways, but maybe in all the ways that count, it is. Because yeah, there have been a few guys here and there over the years-- messing around in the showers with some of the other guys after practice in high school, blowing off steam with other people in the service-- so mechanically, he knows he's fine, but emotionally he is nothing of the kind. Emotionally, he's probably best described as _a fucking mess_ , because he thought he locked all of that shit up tight in a box several decades ago, and he never intended to have to pull it out and examine it in the harsh light of day, ever, ever again. As gay shit goes it's probably a tale as old as fucking time, but he didn't expect to be living it here in his thirties, which is both not old but also ancient, when it comes to figuring out who you are. So much damn history. Too much water under the bridge. He sighs, heavily, and rubs his hand over his face. He is, as the song says, much too young to feel this damn old.

"I don't know if this helps you or not, but it's not my first rodeo, either," Hardison says, and well, that's just great, because now he's just thinking about Hardison fucking around with guys who aren't him, which is hot but also now maybe he's a little jealous, which doesn't even make any sense. 

"I don't know if that helps me out or not. Maybe. No. Yes. Dammit. I don't want you to think it's-- it's not personal, I mean, it probably feels that way. Shit."

"It does and it doesn't," Hardison says carefully. "I know it's a change. You do not have to tell me that it's a change." 

"I just-- you sort of accept some things, about yourself," he tries. "Some very... fundamental things." 

"Yeah, man, I'd say knowing your sexual orientation is a load-bearing assumption you make about yourself. Knocking that down, or changing it-- it feels like the whole building's going to come down around you." 

All he can do is nod for a minute, because it does feel like that, and also because he froze like a deer in headlights when Hardison uttered the words _sexual orientation_. Ain't this more fucking fun than a barrel of goddamn monkeys. How it possible that he can look Hardison dead in the eyes when they're staring down the threat of millions of people dying and tell him, in all honesty, that's he's not afraid, because they're together, because they have each other, but a couple of words have him breaking out in a cold sweat? 

Hardison very gently nudges his uninjured arm. "Hey. You alive over there?" 

"Yeah," he sighs. "I-- I care about you, Hardison, I don't want you think that I don't. That's not what this is about." 

"Eliot, people can be bisexual but heteroromantic," Hardison shrugs. "That's a thing it's possible to be. And maybe you are, and if you are that's okay and normal, but maybe that's why this is hard?" 

"You just said a lot of words and I think some of them you made up," Eliot grumbles. 

"I mean, you can be attracted to people of more than one gender but you can only want to be romantically involved with one gender," Hardison says.

Eliot just blinks a lot for a minute. Christ, no wonder he'd never figured any of this out. The Pauls Valley, Oklahoma high school might have had a pretty good FFA chapter and a decent football team, but they simply did not cover any of the things Hardison just said in any class he'd ever had to attend. He wonders vaguely how many of the guys he messed around with in high school have had to figure this shit out, or if any of them even got the opportunity. He's not necessarily _happy_ about having to haul all this old shit out and put words to it, but he's sort of grateful, in this moment, to have Hardison along for the ride. 

He clears his throat. "Look. I care about Parker. I care about you-- yes, with hearts and flowers or whatever romantic bullshit, that's what I mean," he amends, when it looks Hardison will ask, "but I just took two bullets to save the damn world a day ago, and I can't have this conversation right now, man." 

"You can't have this conversation right now, or you can't have this conversation like this?" 

"I don't even know what that means," Eliot says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Just-- sometimes, in my experience, these things are easier to talk about when it sounds like you're talking about something else. Sometimes you have to relate it to something else, even if it's not a perfect analogy. It helps you take a step back and see things a little clearer," Hardison explains, slowly and plainly, like he is the very soul of patience, which, god, he probably is. Between waiting for Parker and now Eliot, Hardison's had a lot of chances to work on patience. 

"Huh. Yeah. I guess. I don't know." 

"Like, for example," Hardison continues, "maybe I'm not asking you to be my boyfriend, or Parker's, or both, maybe I'm just asking you if you want-- a couple of partners in the restaurant business. Feel me?" 

"I think I'm picking up what you're putting down," Eliot says, nodding slowly. His head hurts. His shoulder hurts. His leg doesn't hurt but it probably should. "But seriously. Bang bang. Shoulder. Leg. Kind of in some pain, over here." 

"I get it, and I'll drop it for now, I just want-- I need us to have a plan," Hardison says. "Because if we don't have one, we're just going to be stuck not doing anything even though we all agreed we would figure it out, and we can let that ride for a while, but I think eventually that will upset Parker." 

"Just Parker?" Eliot asks quietly, watching his face. 

"No," Hardison admits, and Eliot lets out a breath he was not aware he was holding. "Not just Parker. But Parker's the one who was alone for a long time and now she's not, and I'm not doing anything that makes her feel like she might be, ever again." 

"This is what I'm saying," he frowns. "You two, you've got a good thing going. You're happy. I don't want to interfere with your relationship." 

"And this is what I'm saying," Hardison says, pointing at him. "It's your relationship too, if you want it to be. So: you can't talk about this right now, or you can't talk about it like this? 

Eliot squints over at him. "Maybe both?" 

"Okay," Hardison agrees, and Eliot looks very closely for any sign that he was upset, and maybe he looks a little frustrated, but overall he seems all right. Hardison goes back to his game, and Eliot naps on the couch, at least until one-espresso-shot-Parker comes back and tells them in great detail about her adventure with Amy and some possible new clients, and they don't really talk about it again for a while. Hardison and Parker give him space, and he takes it. He needs to rest up, anyway. He doesn't bounce back from gunshots like he used to, and at some point he's going to need to be in fighting form, to say nothing of wanting to be back in shape so he can do literally anything either or both of them ask him for. 

God. Sex is so easy. He half-wishes sometimes that this was just about sex, and not just because he wants to sleep with them, which he does. It's just that if all they wanted was to sleep with him, he's sure he'd be fine. That's just pleasure, and pleasure he's got no problem with. They'd all have a fantastic time. Maybe several fantastic times. But that would be it, and if it's just sex then he can do what he's always done and he won't have to unpack all of this identity stuff that he told himself a long time ago didn't apply to him when he knew full well that it very much did. Or even if it was just love, that'd be fine too. He sure as shit doesn't have a problem loving the two of them, they're as much a part of who he is as anything else, and he's fine with it. As problems go, that ain't it.

But pleasure and love at the same time? Entirely different kettle of fish. No idea what to do with it. Been a very long time since he had it, if he ever had it like this, which he suspects that he didn't. 

+

And then Nate and Sophie leave, and as they go he makes a promise, and even though he already said for better or worse, this time there were witnesses, and that shouldn't make it different, because a vow's a vow no matter who it gets said in front of, but it does change things. No more excuses, now. Time to take himself apart and put himself back together again, and soon, because he figures he's got _maybe_ six months before they get an invite to the over-the-top wedding shindig Sophie deserves and eventually will convince Nate to have, and after the tender goddamn promise he just made, if the three of them don't turn up at that ceremony with at least some of this figured out he is absolutely going to catch hell from Sophie. And it will be a cold day in hell before he willingly gets his ass handed to him by Sophie Devereaux on her wedding day. It's well past time to buckle down and do the work, whatever the fuck that means. For Hardison, for Parker, and for himself. 

Trouble is, he doesn't know where to start. 

"Well," he says, looking at them both, now that it's just the three of them, officially. "Here we are." 

"I gotta say, man," Hardison says, slowly, "that was a hell of a line." 

"It wasn't a line," Eliot says. He shuffles his feet. "A vow, maybe. Wasn't a line." 

"I don't think we're a line," Parker says. She cocks her head to the side, her ponytail brushing against Hardison's shoulder. "I think we're a triangle." 

They all nod. 

Eliot has a lot of questions, but he starts with, "How does that...work?" 

"I have no idea," Hardison answers. 

"Me either," Parker shrugs. "But if anybody can figure it out, I think we can." 

Hardison looks at Parker's contemplative face, and then over at Eliot, and says, "We don't have to figure the whole thing out tonight." 

"Right," Eliot says, trying to hide some of the relief that he feels. "What exactly are we doing tonight?" 

The question sort of hangs in the air. It's not an entirely uncomfortable silence, but even so it stretches out a little too long, until Hardison coughs and opens his arms. 

"Group hug?" he suggests. 

"Group hug!" Parker says, and hops out of her chair. 

They look at him, arms open. 

Hardison inclines his head toward them. "You in, E?" 

"Yeah," he says, stepping over. "Yeah, I'm in." 

And he is in, for whatever this is, for good. They all wrap their arms around each other, and come hell or high water, he thinks, he's going to figure this out. 

\+ 

As it turns out, running an entire brewpub as a legitimate business while vetting and recruiting criminals who might be willing to go straight and join an international non-criminal ring of do-goodery is exactly as exhausting as it sounds and then some. Trying to add in defining a whole-ass new relationship on top of that leaves you bone-tired and emotionally wrung out, and lately he just feels like he's been rode hard and put away wet-- and not at all in the good way-- so there has been no further discussion on whatever the hell is going on here. 

That doesn't mean there hasn't been some progress. He has moved into the spare bedroom that apparently was always his to begin with. The sword fits perfectly in its display case, his car and truck have a more than comfortable space in the building's private garage, the guitar gets played every now and again, and sometimes in the middle of the night when Parker and Hardison are sleeping, that heavy bag downstairs finally sees some action. And they touch each other a lot more frequently. Sometimes Parker just holds his hand for a while as they work, or Hardison comes to lean on him while he makes dinner. He doesn't initiate a lot of that, but he accepts it from Parker like he always has and no longer does the thing where he tries to push Hardison away, even playfully. Tries to lean into instead, accept that maybe pleasure and love can co-exist in his life and his body, even with another guy. 

If only the members of the Pauls Valley FFA could see him now. 

Then again, there was some very gay shit that happened behind the show barn some nights. Or maybe it was queer shit. Hardison says queer a lot, in reference to himself. Eliot's learned a lot of vocabulary even though they have not discussed it. Some of it feels uncomfortable, which is probably a strong indication that it maybe does apply to him, and the nights when he wrestles with that the most are the nights that heavy bag sees the most work, because goddammit, he's lived his whole life thinking that _don't ask don't tell_ was perfectly fine only to discover that not only was it a shitty policy when it was from the government, it was also a shitty policy even when it was him doing it to himself, because it wasn't just himself he was stealing from, it was Hardison, and Parker, and he didn't even know them yet. And since everything he's done the past few years and everything he has promised to do for the rest of his life have been structured around protecting these people he loves and keeping them safe from harm, it's an extra fucking kick in the teeth that he might be the one hurting them. 

He buys an extra boxing bag. The one downstairs is looking a little ragged. 

+

They spend what feels like years looking at possibles for the international teams. So many dossiers, so much time. They read, they swap stories about these people, things they've heard, things they've seen, and they argue a lot about who might be willing to not shoot at them immediately after they show up and pitch this idea. They agree, if they can get the right people, all it'll take is one job-- "Maybe two," Hardison jokes-- and they'll be in, but they have to find those people first.

"I need a break," Eliot says, sometime around midnight, god knows how many days into this project. "I can't look at this anymore right now. I'm going to the kitchen for a while." 

"If you make anything good you have to bring us some," Hardison says, without looking up from his screens. 

Next to him, Parker just nods. "That's the rule," she says. 

Eliot pauses. "Is it, now?" 

"Just because I just made it up doesn't mean it's not a rule," she tells him cheerfully, and he grunts a noise that's trying to be a laugh and heads out the door to the pub's kitchen. 

It's late enough that everyone's already gone home for the night, everything cleaned and put away and ready for when the crew comes in tomorrow morning to prep for lunch service. At least once or twice a week now, maybe more, the kitchen staff comes in to discover a note from Eliot on the fridge about something he's left them to serve for lunch or dinner specials, because at least once or twice a week he finds himself down here in the middle of the night, working through something that he can't talk or punch through. 

And honestly? He's made a lot of really good shit lately. Experimental chilis. Breads of all kinds. And once, an over-the-top, ridiculously elaborate three-tiered cake made with blue cornmeal, ancho chili, and cajeta. Parker had eaten one bite and declared that if this were in the Louvre, she'd have stolen it. Hardison just moaned and asked for another piece. 

Tonight, though, it's nothing fancy. Just basics. A bolognese. Meat and wine and herbs in a pot. Easy. Comforting. No thoughts necessary. Keeps well overnight for the restaurant to serve tomorrow-- or an easy donation to one of the local homeless shelters. He's made his fair share of those since they moved up here and he had access to a full commercial kitchen on the regular. 

He turns the gas on under a heavy stock pot and gathers up what he needs while he waits for it to get hot. He spares a minute to be grateful to Hardison for this place. He'd never actually explained, about him and food, before they moved here, so Hardison must have just understood that it meant something to him. He tried, once not long ago, to explain it to Nate, but he couldn't, really. The thing about cooking is-- well, there's a lot of things about it, but at the moment the main thing is that while he's doing it, he doesn't have to think about anything else. It's not, _what the fuck are you doing interfering in your best friends' perfectly good relationship_ , it's, _this is the right amount of carrots and onions and celery for a soffritto_. It's not, _you've been with guys before so what's the big deal if you're in love with one, no one's asking you to prance around in rainbow t-shirts and love the Village People_ , it's, _don't skimp on the damn olive oil-- you know it always takes more than you think_. And it's not, _you're going to fuck this up for all of you and it won't be the worst thing you've done by a country mile but it'll still be pretty fucking bad_ , and okay, maybe it is that last one a little bit, but soffritto takes so damn long to do its thing that it left him space for thinking after all. 

He leaves it to sizzle and stalks to the fridge to figure out what else he can make, maybe something for himself, since he realizes it's been a minute since he had a meal. Some kind of burger, maybe, he thinks, turning ideas over in his head, and then his brain is taken up with ingredients and flavor profiles and textures and he can't overthink his love life or have some kind of goddamn gay crisis that he's honestly just too old for, thank you very fucking much. 

The burger-- bibimbap style, he decides, with gochujang in the ground beef, and kimchi, quick pickled cucumber and carrot and a fried egg on top-- is a nice distraction, but it doesn't keep him from thinking about the situation entirely, just takes the sting out of it. Mostly he just wishes that figuring out whatever's going on with him and Parker and Hardison was as easy as mincing vegetables for sauce or slapping a halfway decent burger together.

But that's not a fair assessment, entirely. Cooking took him time to learn, didn't it? Nobody's just born knowing how to do all this shit, not him, not Toby, not whoever taught Toby, it's just a long line of people learning from somebody else and it's been like that probably forever, for all of human history. He had no idea, did he, before Toby got a hold of him, how to look for the way oil just slips and shines in a pan when it's hot, or the way custard jiggles just right when it's done. He hadn't known any of that in the beginning. A soffritto might as well have been some kind of opera that he didn't know and wouldn't care about. Julienne was probably some French model he'd had a fun time with once for a few days in Paris. Now, though, it's celery and onions and carrots and knife cuts. He just had to learn it. Had to be willing to learn it. Had to be willing to believe that even he could do something good with it. 

What did Sophie say to Parker that night, when she was trying Eliot's spring rolls? Close your eyes, think about stealing something. In other words, stop thinking you know already what something will feel like and be willing to let it be something else, something new. Maybe that's what he needs: to stop dragging all his old shit to this new party and try to be willing, like Parker was, to learn the difference between just eating food to survive and _enjoying the experience_. 

The thought rocks him back a little. Okay, so, Hardison may have been right that sometimes it's easier to think about this stuff when you're thinking about something else. But that's hardly surprising. Hardison's the smartest person he knows, of course he was right about this. And yes, Hardison is a guy, a guy who he loves, a guy who he is maybe-- no, definitely-- in love with, and that is very different but maybe it doesn't have to be a crisis. Maybe instead it can be like spring rolls. 

Spring rolls. Love can be like spring rolls? Of all the half-baked, weird ideas, what the hell. He's starting to think like Parker. Then again, he considers, as he finishes layering pickles on his burger, Parker managed to evolve into someone who knows how to love and be loved and be cool with it, so maybe he could have a worse role model. Spring roll model? Jesus. First Parker, now Hardison. But he's laughing about it, so yeah, these people have definitely gotten into his head, but it's not that bad. 

He eats his burger over the sink while the soffritto cooks, obsessively washes everything, and goes back to add meat and then tomato paste and wine and stock and herbs and milk and some cheese rind to the pot. The bolognese simmers happily. He finds a tasting spoon and gives it a try, adjusts some spices, grabs another spoon, tries again, adjusts some more, until he takes a bite that just makes him smile all the way down to his feet. There it is. It might need a splash of wine after a while, but for now, it's just fine. And he feels a lot better. Maybe food-- growing it, making it, sharing it-- maybe that's pleasure too, after a fashion, and it's definitely love. So he's not entirely unfamiliar with that combination of things. Okay. It's not a lot, but it's a start. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's Parker, texting him. 

_Made anything good yet? Inquiring minds want to know._

He's typing a response when another text appears. 

_I'm the inquiring mind. And Hardison._

He shakes his head. _I'm making bolognese_ , he tells her. _It's gonna be a while._

_We can wait_ , she texts back, and she means for the food, but maybe also she means for the other thing. 

He stares at the bolognese. If he brings some upstairs, even as late as it will be when it's done, Parker would probably roll out of bed and just eat it like it was some kind of incredibly rich soup, but he can't be in the business of promoting that. He's gonna have to make some pasta. Which isn't exactly a hardship, other than the clean-up, so he texts back, _Good to know_ , then washes his hands, pulls out eggs and flour, and gets to it. 

He cracks a shit ton of eggs into a flour well and wonders if Parker and Hardison are aware that where he comes from, feeding someone is sort of a silent _I love you_. He frowns at the eggs. Thinks about Hardison buying this place. Thinks about Parker not really seeing anything special about food until recently. Hardison knows, probably, that he feeds people because he loves them. Parker almost certainly doesn't.

He thinks of how he might explain that to her, and it gets complicated pretty quick, because the truth is that where he's from, food can also sort of be a silent _fuck you_ , considering the number of times he's been to a potluck where something like ten different little old ladies brought the same recipe, each secretly thinking theirs was better than you-know-who's. He can still hear the whispered accusations, all these years later. _I just saw Flora come through the front door with her casserole dish. You know she puts **carrots** in that, don't you? Yes, you heard me right. **Carrots**._

He laughs a little at that. Maybe not everything from home was bad, even if it does seem to have left him with enough baggage to fill a damn shipping container. He hadn't really realized how much he'd been resenting that lately until now, but as he carefully mixes eggs and flour together with a fork, he feels a little of that hurt slipping away. As far as he's concerned, whatever he grew up with, all this internalized whatever, was sort of like a potluck: you go down the line and fill your plate and sometimes you take shit you don't want because it makes other people happy, but in the end you eat what you like, and then later when Miss Flora isn't looking you dump the rest of the shit on your plate in the trash because goddamn, her corn casserole is the worst one you've ever tasted. Who puts _carrots_ in that? The devil, probably. 

By the time the eggs and the flour are a big ball of dough underneath his hands, he's chuckling to himself, and he honestly feels a whole lot better about everything. The knot of anxious tension that's been sitting in the pit of his stomach since he and Hardison had that talk is gone. Whoever he is, whatever he is, it'll come together. He just picked up a lot of shit that wasn't his, that's all, but it's not who he is, and he doesn't have to keep it. It's just a potluck. It's shitty corn casserole. It's okay. He can toss it out and make a better one. 

He knows two things at this moment: one, he will never be able to explain this line of thought to anyone else, and two, Hardison, who told him he should think about these things differently because it would help, is a beautiful genius that he does not deserve. 

"Hardison, you're a fucking genius," he mumbles. 

"I know I am," a voice rumbles, "but what made you realize that?" 

He looks up, startled, both at the sound and at actually being startled, which does not happen often. "Dammit, Hardison," he says. "Don't sneak up on me like that. Has Parker been teaching you her stealth bullshit?" 

"Nope," Hardison grins. "You were just somewhere else, man." 

"Fucking Oklahoma," Eliot tells him, shrugging and picking up a rolling pin. At Hardison's raised eyebrow, he says, "Don't worry about it. Just figuring some things out." 

It's Hardison's turn to shrug, which is just fine, because it makes his arms do that thing, which is nice. The part of his brain that is programmed to remind him he's not supposed to notice when another guy's arms do that wakes up and pokes at him, but he does an okay job of pushing it away. Potluck. Casserole. Enjoy the experience. Shut up and look at the man's arms if you want to. Which he does. 

"I don't know what you're making in here tonight, man, but it smells amazing," Hardison says. 

"C'mere and try it, then," Eliot says, and okay, that came out sexier than he'd intended, but that's just _fine_ , probably. Hardison does him the courtesy of pretending not to notice and just steps over next to him, waiting as Eliot dips a new tasting spoon into the bolognese and holds it out to Hardison, one hand cupped under it so nothing spills onto the floor. He expects Hardison to take the spoon for himself, but instead he just leans down and closes his mouth over it while he brings one of his hands up to hold Eliot's wrist and keep the spoon steady, and okay, maybe Eliot needs to revise his assessment of how much game Hardison does or does not have, because that's...huh, not bad. He's certainly enjoying it. Maybe too much. That weird knot in his stomach is trying to make a comeback, and he thinks about potlucks and Parker learning to love food and firmly reminds himself to _enjoy the experience_. He's not much for closing his eyes and thinking happy thoughts, but he calls up the memory of Hardison whizzing through government car security to save Vance's team, and it helps, the fierce relief and joy of that moment, the admiration he felt for this man. 

"That's perfect," Hardison says, licking his lips. 

"Yeah," Eliot replies, but he is not looking at the bolognese when he says it, and his stomach still feels tight but it's a different kind of tight, now. "Yeah, it is." 

"Hmm. That reminds me," Hardison says, leaning back against the counter. "I came down here because I wanted to ask you something." 

"Yeah?" 

"About the uh-- the _brewery_ ," Hardison says. "I know it's been a few weeks since we talked about it, but I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted to make any changes to the uh, business structure, or the name, or something, that me and Parker, we'd be fine with that." 

"Oh," he says, blinking. "Yeah." 

"Or maybe things are fine like they are," Hardison says.

"No, I've been thinking, since we all talked the first time. And it might be time for a more official change. Hard to say. Never exactly considered it before recently." 

"Owning a restaurant?" Hardison asks. 

"No, I've thought about that," Eliot says slowly. He picks up the big spoon he's been using to stir the bolognese and turns it through the sauce a few times, thinking and adjusting the heat a little lower. "Never really expected to have two... partners. In the restaurant business. I guess." 

"I hear that," says Hardison. 

"Really? 'Cause it seems to me that I might be the last person to figure it out," Eliot says, thinking of all the ways they made their home his without even saying a damn word. 

"I have no idea what you mean," Hardison says, laughing a little. Eliot puts the spoon back down and turns to face him. 

"You love like you grift, Hardison. Too loudly," Eliot says. He reaches out and pokes Hardison's bicep for emphasis, which was a mistake, because it reminds him how nice Hardison's biceps are. For a big goddamn nerd, the man is really, really built. 

"That so?" Hardison smirks. "Because I was starting to think maybe something was wrong with your ears, or we needed to turn up the volume so you'd pay attention." 

"You turn up the volume anymore and we're gonna need a new damn building to hold all the stuff," Eliot grumbles, trying to distract himself from the way Hardison's looking at him, the way he's probably looking at Hardison. He holds up a finger. "Do _not_ buy us another building." 

"Okay, okay," Hardison replies. "No more buildings. Deal." 

"Look, it's like this. You and Parker are my family," he says seriously. "Maybe that shouldn't mix with other stuff. What if-- what if I put something on the menu that you and Parker don't like?" 

"Well," Hardison says carefully, "we would probably all just talk about it. Me and Parker, we're pretty easy to talk to. And if we weren't already sure we liked your cooking, we wouldn't invite you to our kitchen, you know?"

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not the best person to be in business with," he sighs, folding his arms over his chest. "I'm mostly good at one thing." 

"What, you mean like making damn good food and keeping us alive?" Hardison asks. He counts things off on his fingers. "Or playing the guitar? Singing? Fixing cars? Riding horses? I mean--" 

"Yeah, okay," Eliot interrupts, smiling a little. "Maybe I'm good at a few things." 

"Uh huh," says Hardison, who proceeds to look him all the way up and all the way down. Eliot doesn't _shiver_ , because he's not a damn teenager anymore. "Somehow, I don't think that's the full list, either." 

"You would not be wrong," he agrees, because he might as well know that he's in for a good time, one of these days, when Eliot has finally sorted through enough of his weird potluck-related baggage to deal. 

"I'm not gonna push," Hardison says, "but I am going to point out: that's some pretty serious flirting."

"Sure is," Eliot nods. 

"And I feel like maybe you thought about what I said," Hardison continues. 

"If this is about all the words you said that I was not familiar with, I still don't know where I stand on that. That a problem?" he asks gruffly. 

"No, I'm pretty sure you can leave that section blank on your business license application," Hardison says, winking. "Fill it in later. Or not at all. Up to you. I was just asking because well-- honestly man, I just really wanted to kiss you." 

"Is that-- do you think-- wouldn't Parker mind?" 

"No," Hardison says, "and yes, we've talked about it, and yes, that was both before and after the three of us talked." 

"Y'all talked about wanting to kiss me," he says, "together." 

"We've talked about many things that involve you," Hardison says, spreading his hands. "Know that you have a lot to look forward to, one of these days." 

"Yeah," he says, and that's about the limit of what he can say right now, but he can imagine a whole heap of things. 

"I'll just leave you to think about that, then," Hardison says, with a smile and another wink. "Unless you've revisited your position on kissing me right now." 

His hand snaps out and grabs Hardison's wrist when Hardison turns to leave, not at all unlike he did a few weeks ago in DC. It's the same intensity, same gesture, but it's a reversal all the same. This time it's him who's out of his depth and Hardison who's his anchor. He tries to hang on to that, let Hardison's emotional stability pull him through, but no matter how much he tells himself to just move, already, his feet are rooted to the tile floor, buried in the weight of expectations he never even wanted to have. It may be a potluck, and thinking about it that way may make it a little easier, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a ton of leftovers to throw away. 

There is another universe, probably, where he took some different stuff home from the potluck. In that universe, he closes this gap without even thinking about it, and then he and Hardison go upstairs to Parker and they all have a very fun night together. In this universe, though, he's just not ready, and Hardison, who he really owes probably a year of very good food and lots of other stuff at this point for being so damn patient, knows this, and is okay with it. 

"Eliot," Hardison murmurs, "take your time, man. Nobody here is in a hurry. Not me. Not Parker." 

"I just want to get to a place where this makes sense," he says. He lets go of Hardison's wrist. "I don't want to have to reassess my whole damn life to be okay with this." 

"Yeah, I get it," Hardison says. "Believe me. I'm here if you want to talk, remember." 

"Talking's not my favorite thing," Eliot sighs. 

"You don't say. It's not like we didn't know you were a little less conversation, a little more action," Hardison says, and the corners of his mouth are twitching because he's trying not to laugh, and maybe Eliot can't do everything he wants to do quite yet but he can lean forward and kiss the corner of Hardison's mouth, right where his lips meet his cheek, and it's something. 

"Thanks," he says, when he steps away. 

"Anytime," Hardison says softly, and turns to go. 

"Hey," Eliot calls, just as the doors swing shut. A moment later, Hardison's head pokes back through the door. 

"Yeah?" 

"All the other stuff aside, if we did rename this place-- make it ours-- what would you call it?" 

Hardison thinks for just a minute, then touches his chin, nods once, and says, "The Fulcrum."

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. It's the point you rest a lever on, often represented visually by a _triangle_ ," Hardison says, pointing at himself, and then Eliot, and then up at the ceiling toward the apartment where Parker's waiting, just in case Eliot did not catch the _very_ obvious symbolism, "and, it's _just_ pretentious enough for this Cascadia hipster vibe they've got going on around here." 

Eliot smiles. "I like it," he says, nodding. "Let's do it." 

"The rebrand," Hardison says, "or--" 

"The whole damn thing," Eliot tells him. "Just-- give me some time to figure that out." 

"Like I said, man," Hardison says, as he heads out the doors, "take all the time you need." 

+

Even in the middle of building the new teams, Hardison makes time to throw himself into the Bridgeport rebrand. Eliot doesn't know why he's surprised that within twenty-four hours of their conversation about it, Hardison has already produced a whole slate of new marketing materials, including a new logo and menu design, but he is. 

_The Fulcrum_. It is a lot more pretentious than what he would have picked, but he likes it all the same. Likes the symbolism, the way it represents the work that brought them together and this new thing they're trying to build together. It makes it _theirs_ and theirs alone. Not Nate Ford's team. Just them. 

"I really love this, man," he says, when Hardison shows him the final copy of the new logo, and Hardison grins. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Hey, Parker?" Eliot calls, trying to distract her from the bigscreen, where she's got what looks like fifteen potential new team members' info displayed. She's been at it all morning, reading, memorizing, muttering to herself. "Did you even look at these designs?" 

"Yep! I love them," she says, and gives him a thumbs-up over her shoulder, still sorting through their lists of potential recruits. He and Hardison exchange a look. 

"Parker, what are we even talking about?" Hardison asks. 

"We're a triangle, or we're trying to be, and so is the new logo for the new bar where the old bar is which we're renaming something that _isn't_ Den of Thieves," she says, still not turning around. "Which was my idea. My other idea. I still think 'thief juice' is the best. But _The Fulcrum_ is fine too, I guess." 

"I'll name our first beer Den of Thieves," Eliot promises, and Hardison gasps. "You okay?" 

"No, I'm great, that's just a _really_ good name for a craft beer." 

Eliot grins and lifts his eyebrows. "I keep telling you, I know what I'm about, here." 

"Yeah. So what you thinking?" Hardison asks, flipping open his laptop and pulling up the notes he keeps for the beer rotations. "Double IPA? Session ale?" 

"Naw, man, it's a Belgian trippel," Eliot says, like that should have been obvious, and it really should have. "High ABV. Smooth and sneaky. Don't know you had too many until it's too late." 

"Okay," Hardison says, jotting things down. "Okay, okay. I would have said double IPA, but yeah, that's good too." 

"Good? It's perfect. Also, the double IPA's called The Bank Job," Eliot says. "Keep up." 

"I'm not mad about that," Hardison says, "but it's mostly because you're very handsome." 

" _Okay_ ," he replies, not really sure what to do with that. Any further reply he might have made is cut off when he hears a noise from the roof and his whole body tenses up. "Stay here," he orders, already heading to check it out.

"Nope," Hardison tells him, grabbing his arm as he tries to go past. "I thought I told y'all, we needed some work done on the roof. Those guys are legit. Please do not go punching them, they are just hard-working men, making sure our ceiling doesn't leak, and maybe installing some solar panels so this place is more energy efficient. They'll be in and out for a few weeks." 

"Oh," he says. "I don't remember you saying that. Parker, do you remember him saying that?" 

"Yep. Solar panels," she says, not really looking in their direction. "Other stuff. Roof guys. Don't taser them." 

Eliot frowns at her. Something's off, and he doesn't like it. "Parker, what--" 

"I'm going to go for a run," she declares suddenly, standing up and stretching. "I need to see something that isn't screens." 

"Good idea," Hardison says, and she smiles at him and kisses his cheek before she heads upstairs to change. She doesn't really do much except look at Eliot, which should be fine, but she's been touching him so much more recently that the absence of it is a little bit of a shock. 

"Is she okay?" Eliot asks. 

"She's fine," Hardison says.

"I thought we were all the same page," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "If we're not on the same page, Hardison, there is a big problem, and she is not okay." 

"We are on the same page," Hardison says. "I think this is her way of giving you space. Maybe you should just...talk to her?" 

"You don't have to say it like that," he grumbles, even though yeah, he probably does. "But yeah, okay." 

He really does try, unsuccessfully, to find time to talk to Parker over the next few days, but it seems like every time he tries there's a disaster or some kind of damn crisis in the restaurant, and he has to go deal with that. A storm blows through and knocks out the power at one of the local farms they source cheese from, and their whole order goes bad and can't be delivered. A bunch of herbs got mis-ordered somehow, and he ends up with a shitload of dill and cilantro instead of thyme and parsley. Not to mention they're trying to get the beer actually brewing, and sourcing hops and wheat and barley and figuring out what beers need what notes is a huge pain in the ass. 

The closest they come to a conversation is a brief minute in the middle of a busy lunch service where they're short-staffed and he's trying to pitch in. He had ducked back into the apartment to take a five minute break, and nearly runs smack into her on his way back out as she's coming in. She's sweaty and her hair's tied up, and she looks like she's been for a run again. She's been doing that a lot lately, in between working on the new teams. 

"Hey," she says, as she slips past, and he reaches for her arm. 

"Hey," he says. "You and me. Are we okay?" 

She looks puzzled, which he supposes is a good sign. "Yes? Why wouldn't we be?" 

"I can think of a lot of reasons," he says, but she just shakes her head. 

"Well, I can't," she says, and shrugs. She hesitates for a minute, then darts forward and kisses his check. "See you later," she calls, and bounds off. 

Well, now he's just more confused. 

The door to the brewery swings open, and one of the servers-- the one with blue hair and like eighteen ear piercings, Kat? He thinks that's their name-- calls for him. 

"Hey, Eliot, can you help us pull together a couple of four tops? Sorry, we just got a big party and you know they all want to be seated together." 

"Be right there," he says, looking back after Parker, who's already heading upstairs. He'll have to catch her later. "Okay," he says, turning back to Kat. "Let's go." 

+

"Hey, I need a favor." 

Eliot's first instinct, when Hardison or Parker looks like that, is to think that someone somewhere needs to get punched, and his face must have done the thing that it does when someone is threatening his people, because Hardison immediately starts shaking his head. 

"Whoa, no, put the game face away, it is not that kind of favor," he says, waving his hands. "We're all good here." 

"Oh. Okay," Eliot answers. "What'd you need?"

"It's just, you know how I'm going to be gone next week, to--" 

"To your nerd convention," Eliot grins, relaxing a little more. "Yeah, I remember. Wait, this isn't about you needing me to help you try on some costume, or--" 

"Absolutely not," Hardison says. "I am not talking to you about that shit anymore, I don't need or want to hear your wrong opinions about the Stargate Atlantis civilian uniforms." 

"I can't help that they're not correct," he says, because he really does love it when Hardison gets going, and that never fails to set him off. 

"They're literally in another _galaxy_!" Hardison declares. "What did I say to you last time? What did I say? Get some education before you come for me about this, it is a top-secret joint military-slash-civilian science operation _in another galaxy_ , there is _no reason_ that a group of individuals in _outer space_ need to adhere to your American, earth-centric ideas about uniforms..." 

This is quickly building up to Eliot's favorite part of this particular rant. Any second now Hardison's going to start re-explaining the uniform system on Atantis in very specific detail, like it's a real place that actual real people live and work, and god help him, Eliot loves every goddamn second of it. He's only sorry Parker isn't here so they can lean on each other and laugh, which always _really_ annoys Hardison. 

Eliot actually has a soft spot for this particular rant, not that he would ever admit that. But he does, because it was in the middle of this exact rant, the first time he heard it, that Eliot figured out the answer to something that had been puzzling him for over a year. Something had been weird for a while, not in a bad way, but noticeable, enough to eat at him a little when things were quiet, make him wonder what was bugging him that he couldn't name. It wasn't overwhelming-- nothing a good fight couldn't usually solve for a while-- but even he can't fight all the time, so he filled up the quiet spaces in his life with his team: making meals, watching football with Nate, swapping stories with Sophie, sparring lessons with Parker, even learning some of Hardison's computer stuff. He still felt strange, but he could distract it away for a while.

And then one night the three of them were at McRory's after a job, a few beers into decompressing, with Parker on one side and Hardison on the other, just like usual. Also like usual, Eliot had taken any opportunity that presented itself to rile Hardison up about geek stuff, then sat back to enjoy the show. Unlike usual, somewhere between laughing at Hardison's impassioned defense of a fictional uniform system and Parker's interjected off-the-wall commentary, like a plan coming together at the end of a job he realized that what was so strange lately was that he was _happy_. It had been so long since he felt it that he had flat-out forgotten what it felt like. Happiness was another man's dream, and the last decade or so, when it happened to sneak up on him for a few minutes at a stretch he'd always found it strange and ill-fitting, like he was walking around wearing somebody else's clothes. This, though, now that he knew what it was, just felt normal. It suited him fine. He would never have expected to find it here, but that, he supposed, was thieves for you. If they were good, you never saw them coming-- and this crew was the best. 

"And that is why," Hardison is saying, back in the present in Portland, "you are still wrong about Stargate Atlantis, and-- goddammit, Eliot," he swears, when he realizes that he's fallen right into a very obvious trap. 

"It's just so easy to get you going, man," he laughs. 

"You're gonna call me easy, I'm gonna need a few more things from you than wrong opinions about Stargate Atlantis," Hardison says, so he leans over the counter and kisses him on the cheek. "That's better, thank you." 

"Uh huh," Eliot says. "What did you want to ask me, by the way?" 

"Would you just-- would you mind keeping an eye on Parker, while I'm gone?" 

Instantly, he understands the reason Hardison had looked like that when he started this conversation, and why there's nobody for him to punch about it. 

"Her nightmares bothering her again?" he asks quietly, and Hardison just nods. 

"Yeah. I tried to tell her I'd just hack the feeds and stay home this year and she got really upset about it, and--" 

"Well, yeah, Hardison, she doesn't want to feel like a goddamn inconvenience," Eliot interrupts, because he knows how much Parker hates to feel weak, knows it from hearing it from her and from feeling that way himself, and he knows that Hardison knows that, so he should have known better.

"No, she's not, she's a person I love, and you-- you know what, I already had this argument with Parker, I'm not having it again with you, too." 

"Okay," Eliot says, holding his hands up. This is starting to feel a lot like a real goddamn relationship, that's for sure. "My-- my door's always open, you know?" 

"Thanks. Maybe tell her that. But maybe don't say I said anything." 

"No shit, Hardison, I'm not trying to get tasered," he snorts. 

He and Parker drop Hardison at the airport that afternoon. Eliot grabs his bags while Parker kisses him goodbye, and then he and Hardison share a brief awkward moment where it's clear that Hardison would be fine if Eliot followed Parker's lead, but that he understands that public kissing is maybe not where they are yet, and in the end Eliot just grabs him and hugs him for longer than a friend would, and that seems okay.

"Have fun," Parker says, leaning back against the car next to Eliot. "May you... be with the Force?" 

"Yeah, man, live long and prosper," Eliot says, throwing Hardison what he knows is a shit-eating grin as he flashes what is very obviously not the right hand gesture. 

"Y'all are bad people," Hardison says, shaking his head as he looks back and forth between them. "Bad, bad people." 

"Yeah, but you love us," Eliot and Parker say together. 

"That I do," he nods, gazing at both of them fondly before he turns and heads into the airport. They watch until he has fully disappeared behind crowds and doors, then climb back into the car and head home. 

"I hope he doesn't stay up for three days playing Black Ops again," Parker says, as they drive away. "He thinks I don't notice, but it really affects the way he moves. Like he thinks he's in the game." 

Eliot snickers. "I know. After he did that big online tournament a few months ago he walked around like he was James fucking Bond. I heard him trying to do Sophie's accent in the stockroom downstairs." 

"Cor blimey, guv'nor, we're out of ice," she says, in a pretty fair impersonation of Hardison trying to be Sophie. "What will we do? Should I call Scotland Yard?" 

"Don't worry, luv. That's why they call me the Iceman," Eliot growls. 

It's extremely absurd and honestly not even that funny, but they can both imagine Hardison saying it, have heard Hardison say things like it on cons, which does make it pretty hilarious. More than that, he knows she wouldn't play along like this if she really were upset with him, and instead Parker is laughing so hard she's crying, so that's a damn relief. 

"Remember that thing in Alberta," she says, "with the chickens?" 

"Oh, you mean Mister Ephraim Holmes, chicken breeder to the stars? I keep telling him to leave agriculture to the country boys, and he just _insists_ on trying it anyway." 

She snickers. "He should have listened to you." 

"He's lucky anyone on coms knew the difference between a Rhode Island Red and a Wyandotte," Eliot grumbles. "They're not even the same damn colors." 

"Maybe we are bad people," Parker says, but she's laughing. 

"We're us," he shrugs. "It's good for him. Keeps him on his toes." 

Parker just smiles and reaches over for his hand, which fortunately is not on the steering wheel. She threads her fingers through his, pats them with her other hand, and stares at the window, humming happily to herself for a minute. 

"What do you want to do while Hardison's off with all the nerds?" he asks. 

"I don't know," she frowns. "I need to keep looking through all those dossiers, and Hardison left us some files that he pulled off the drive that might make for some easy first jobs." 

"You've been working pretty hard on that," Eliot reminds her. "You can take a break. World won't stop. Bad guys will still be bad guys tomorrow." 

"Yeah," she says. "But that means they're hurting people today and tomorrow." 

He's quiet for a minute as he takes their exit and stops at a light. He feels like an idiot and also an asshole for thinking that how distracted she's been might have had anything to do with him at all. She's got a brand new gig, leading this crew, and just because she's ready doesn't mean it's not hard. 

"Hey," he says, looking over at her. "Listen. I know how seriously you're taking this new role, and me and Hardison are proud of you for stepping up to it. But running this crew ain't meant to put the weight of the whole damn world on your shoulders, Parker. It's not just you against the dark." 

"I just-- I want this to work," she says. "I need this to work." 

"It will," he says, as the light changes. "Just remember that we're a team, you don't have to make it work by yourself. And you don't have to prove shit to anybody. You're gonna be great. You already are." 

"Thanks," she says, squeezing his hand. 

"When we get back, why don't we go through some of that stuff together," he says. "I could use a break from menus and beer." 

"Okay," she agrees. 

But when they get back to the brewery, Amy flags him down about another supply issue-- the farm they're supposed to be getting their next shipment of greens from had a problem, so he's got to either find some mizuna, butter lettuce, and arugula quick from somewhere else, or totally rethink the menu-- and one of the bartenders calls out with a sick kid, so he jumps behind the bar to help out for a few hours, and it's not _late_ , but it's a lot later than he meant to be when he gets back to the apartment. 

Parker is right where he figured she'd be, camped out downstairs with all her files around her. 

"I'm back," he says, frowning an apology. 

"Okay," she replies, without looking up, but that's been pretty much par for the course for her lately, so he doesn't think anything of it until he comes back in a few minutes with a bowl of leftover chili and some water and sets them in front of her. 

"Here," he says. "Dinner break." 

"I already ate," she says, still not looking at him. She pushes the bowl back. "Thanks, but no thanks." 

"What did you eat, exactly?" he asks. 

"Cereal," she says. She nudges the glass of water away also. 

"Look," he says, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, okay? The brewery had a few problems I had to take care of." 

"Yep," she says. "Got it." 

"Dammit, Parker," he mutters, and she slaps her hand flat on the tabletop and glares up at him. 

"If you tell me that I don't have to do all of this by myself and then you just leave and I have to do it by myself, that's not great, Eliot," she snaps. "So no, I don't want dinner, and I don't want to talk about it, I just want you to _leave me alone_. You're good at that."

"I said I was sorry, Parker," he snaps back. 

"Yeah, I heard you. Surprise, that doesn't make me magically feel better." 

"Look here, you aren't chained to this desk, you could have come out there," he says, pointing towards the bar. "We could've used your help, actually." 

"Doing what?" she demands. "I don't tend bar. I don't order supplies. I can't make food. I'm not the manager. You and Hardison do all of that and you're good at it but _this is what I'm good at_ , okay? This. This is the only thing that we all do that I can do. So just leave me alone, and let me do it!" 

"Fine," he growls, grabbing the bowl of chili and walking angrily into the kitchen. It's not his damn fault that everybody in the brewery looks to him for answers all the time. He didn't ask Hardison to buy him a brewery, didn't ask either of them to fall in love with him, and he sure as hell didn't ask to fall in love with them and move in here and be snapped at for not reporting on his whereabouts every second of the day. It's not like Parker should care, Parker should understand, she spent most of her life not accountable to any other human being, for crying out loud. 

Oh. Right. He runs full force into guilt like it's a brick goddamn wall. Parker, who grew up on her own. Parker, who was alone for a very long time. Parker, who doesn't want to be alone anymore, and who was probably counting on him for more than company, this afternoon. 

"Fuck," he says, grabs the chili, turns around and goes right back. 

She glares at him as soon as he comes back into the room, and he's got to hand it to her, it's a pretty intense glare. He ignores it. 

"I live here too," he says, when she opens her mouth like she's going to tell him to go away again. "I know you're mad, and you got a right to be mad, but I ain't leaving just 'cause you're mad. That's not how this works. So if it's all right with you, I'm gonna sit here and eat my own damn dinner, and you can eat or not, or talk to me or not, but I'm not going anywhere." 

" _Fine_ ," she says. 

They sit in a tense, angry silence. Eliot eats, also angrily, while Parker stares at the screen and moves papers around and doesn't even do a good job of pretending that she's reading. 

And her stomach growls twice. Loudly. He just shakes his head. So much for the dinner she claims to have eaten. 

"Is there any more of that chili?" she mumbles finally. 

"Sorry, couldn't hear that over the sound of your stomach growling, Miss I Ate Cereal I'm Not Hungry," he says.

"Fuck off," she says, but there's not a lot of heat behind it, and when her stomach rumbles a third time he just slides out of his chair. 

"There's more in the kitchen," he tells her. "I'll bring you some." 

He slaps a white dishtowel over his arm before he leaves the kitchen again, and bows to her like they're on some job at a fancy party. "Madame's chili," he says, setting it carefully down in front of her. 

A smile plays around her mouth, but she doesn't crack. "Thank you, garçon," she says, and it's a pretty good high-society lady impersonation. She really has come a long way from the angry thief who stabbed that shithead in Serbia. 

He clears his throat. "Can I get Madame anything else from the kitchen?" 

"I might want dessert," she says, and she is smiling a little now. She waves her hand. "Later. You're dismissed." 

"I'll leave you to your meal," he says, winks, and bows again, then shuffles back to his seat and picks up his spoon. 

They eat in silence for a few minutes, until Eliot finishes his bowl and drops the spoon in it. 

"It's good chili," she tells him, and about half of hers is already gone. "It's...warmer than it usually is. I like it." 

"Yeah?" he smiles. "I tweaked the chiles in it this time. More chipotle peppers. Wanted a little more smoky heat." 

She nods. "I'm sorry I snapped at you and rejected your chili," she says. 

"I'm sorry I told you I'd be here for you and then I wasn't," he replies. 

"I don't like being left alone," she says. "Especially when people tell me I won't be." 

"Yeah, I kinda figured," he answers. "That's why I came back in here." 

"Thanks," she says. 

"I wasn't trying to break a promise, Parker," he sighs. "I should have come back in here and told you what was up. I wasn't thinking. I'm not used to-- look, I know we've all been...something, for a while, but I haven't really been accountable to anybody for most of my time-- well, since I was in the army, probably. It's not an excuse, I fucked up and I'm sorry, but this is pretty new to me." 

He watches her turn that over in her head. "Sometimes when I need to think I just go climb something tall and sit for a while," she says. "Hardison got upset once because I was gone and I didn't tell him I was going. I wasn't trying to upset him. Nobody used to...care. Now somebody cares." 

"Yeah." 

"No, I'm saying that to you," she says. She leans over and pokes his arm, hard. "Somebody cares, where you are. Two somebodies." 

"I'll keep that in mind," he promises, and she seems satisfied. "We okay?" 

"If I say no, will you make me dessert?" 

"Parker, I'll make you dessert either way." 

"I know, but a little extortion's still fun sometimes," she grins, and he laughs. 

"Yeah, okay. We can have dessert with a side of light extortion," he agrees. 

"Good," she says, and slips out of her chair and comes to stand next to him. He puts his arm around her shoulders, and she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "And yeah. We're okay." 

"Good," he says back. "Tell you what. Why don't you come give me a hand, with dessert?" 

She narrows her eyes at him. "You told me I wasn't allowed in the kitchen anymore because I used one of your pans." 

"Oh, is that what happened?" he asks. "Because what _I_ remember was you putting my _cast iron dutch oven_ in the dishwasher." 

"That's where the dishes go," she says, like this is obvious to everyone but him. 

"Not that one," he says, in the same tone. 

She rolls her eyes, but she does follow him into the kitchen when he goes, and she only makes one snide remark about dish rules as he puts their bowls and spoons from dinner into the dishwasher. 

"What kind of dessert do you want?" 

"Hmmmm." Parker pretends to think for a minute. "Chocolate," she tells him, like it's been a very long, deliberative process that she's had to do to arrive at the conclusion that the kind of dessert she wants is her favorite kind. 

"Predictable," he tells her, and she shrugs. "You know what we're gonna make? We're gonna make a croquembouche." 

"A what now?" 

"You remember last year when we did that job in Marseilles and they had that pastry tower that you ate half of by yourself?" 

Her eyes get wide, almost gleaming in the kitchen lights, as she remembers. "The one with all the gold on it that you could eat?" 

He nods. "That would be the one." 

"You can _make_ that?" She waves her fingers between them. " _We_ can make that?" 

"We can and we will," he says, already pulling out the piping bag and setting a pan on the stove for the choux. 

"Even the gold?" 

He nods again and points at the pantry. "Grabbing that seems like a job for you. Pantry. Third shelf up on the left. Bag of dried cranberries. And grab the flour, too, please." 

Parker doesn't like cranberries. He knows this. She knows he knows this. She squints at him. "How are we going to get gold out of cranberries?" 

"Trust me," he says, and she looks skeptical, but she heads to the pantry anyway. He sets the oven to warm and grabs butter and milk from the fridge, and eggs for the creme patissiere. Well. A chocolate creme patissiere. 

"Well, well, well," she calls, as he's turning the burner on under the pot for the choux. He grins. Parker reappears in the kitchen, holding a small container of edible gold flakes in her hand. "So. You hid edible gold in the cranberry bag, hmm?" 

"Figured you wouldn't go looking there, ma'am," he says, tipping an invisible hat at her. "Seems I was right. Also it seems like you forgot the flour." 

"Oops," she says. 

"I'll get it," he tells her, but when he steps past her he just picks her up around the waist and spins her around, grabbing the container of edible gold out of her hand as he sets her down. He tucks it into his pocket. "Now, you're getting the flour." 

She grins and ducks back into the pantry, then reemerges with the flour while he washes his hands. 

"All right," he says, drying his hands on a dish towel and throwing it over his shoulder. "Ready to make some pastry?" 

"I thought we were baking," she says, when he steps up to the stovetop. "You said pastry. Pastry means baking." 

"That _is_ why the oven's on," he points out, "but choux pastry's a little different. You'll see." 

And she does. Parker is endearingly intrigued by the pastry process, and unsurprisingly good at piping it, so much so that he lets her take over piping the whole tray of profiteroles so he can make the chocolate creme patissiere. 

"You're a thief," he tells her, when she looks at him skeptically as she's holding the piping bag. "You got the right hands for the job. Trust me." 

She gets the whole tray piped while he carefully tempers eggs and makes the creme pat, and he only has to push her hands away from the bowl a few times, but because it's Parker and it's chocolate, he's prepared for this. He hands her a spoon and a ramekin full of perfect, delicate chocolate creme pat that he set aside for the purpose of distracting her.

"Thanks. It's more fun to steal it, though," she says, but that doesn't stop her eating it out of her own bowl, at least. 

"If you steal it, we won't have any to fill the pastry with," he points out. She shrugs and goes back to stuffing spoonfuls of chocolate cream into her face. He would tell her she'll be too full for pastry, but he knows her better than that. He once saw her eat half of the richest cake he's ever made-- a triple layer chocolate and peanut butter confection covered with peanut butter buttercream and a chocolate ganache-- in one sitting, for breakfast, and then ask if there was any cereal. She's Parker. She'll adjust. It's what she does. 

Fortunately, profiteroles are a quick bake, so she doesn't have a chance to poach any more cream before they're out of the oven and ready to be filled. He hands her the piping bag with some trepidation, now that it is full of chocolate cream. 

"Filling goes here," he instructs, pointing at the pastries, then taps her lips. "Not here." 

"You are no fun," she sighs, but she gets to work, and even though his back is turned for a minute while he starts caramelizing the sugar that will stick this whole thing together, he's pretty sure she doesn't eat too much of it. 

When most of the filling has made its way into the pastries and not Parker, they start in on the tower. She eats at least three profiteroles in the time it takes him to dip one of them in caramel. Of course. 

"Gold should go last," he says, when Parker reaches for the container, and she makes a face. 

The thing isn't close to done, but he knows she'll keep on about it, so he relents and slides it over to her. Predictably, she puts some of it on the profiteroles, and a lot of it on herself.

"Can we get more of this stuff?" she asks, smearing a strip of it across her wrist. 

"Sure," he says, dipping a couple more profiteroles in caramel and sticking them together. "It's not hard to get. Why?" 

"Oh, no reason," she says, peering at him through her lashes, the reason plain as day on her face. 

"There's better stuff to use for that than this," he grumbles, taking the container back and putting it in his back pocket before she can waste any more of it. "And are you and Hardison on a campaign of some kind to see which one of you can get under my skin the most?" 

"Maaaaybe," she says, wiggling her eyebrows. "How am I doing?" 

For an answer, he takes her wrist, leans over, and licks the gold off in one clean stripe, and god, it's nice to just be able to do that without all the weird feelings crap getting in the way. "You tell me," he says, letting go and looking up at her. 

"That's pretty good," she says. Her lips quirk to the side. "You're not gonna kiss me unless Hardison's here, though, are you." 

"I am not," he sighs. 

"Is that what you want?" she says, gazing thoughtfully at him. "All of us together? All the time?" 

"Parker," he sighs, as part of the tower unsticks itself and falls over, "I can barely figure out what to do with one of you. I don't know how to answer that." 

"Well, try," she suggests. 

"I need my brain for this," he says, gesturing at the pastry, but she just stares back. "Fine. Fuck. Maybe? At least the first time. I don't know. This triangle thing is weird." 

"Is it?" she asks. She eats another profiterole and smiles. He frowns. They aren't going to have a tower, at this point, but she seems happy, so he lets it go. "It doesn't feel weird to me." 

"That's because you're you," he sighs, attaching another profiterole to the pile, which is starting to sort of vaguely resemble a vertical structure. "And maybe it's not weird. I think it probably isn't, I was just raised to think it was. You should ask Hardison. I'm not an authority on any kind of relationship, whether there's two people or three, or what any of the people in that relationship might...be, if they were in it." 

"Hmm. You mean like the whole sexuality spectrum?" she asks, waving her hand, and maybe he's a little jealous that she can just toss that out there like she doesn't have a care in the world. 

"Yeah," he grunts. "That." 

"Sorry," she says, frowning. "I know you talked to Hardison. Maybe I wasn't supposed to know?" 

"No, I don't care if he talks to you about it," Eliot says. "You're my-- our-- you're Parker. That's okay." 

"He just said that you were having a hard time," she tells him. "And that we were all still okay, but that maybe we should give you some space. He didn't really say a lot more than that." 

"Is that why you've been so buried in that paperwork? To give me space?" 

She shrugs. "I understand what it feels like to need space while you're dealing with feelings." 

"Well, you didn't give me space, you gave me a damn galaxy," he says. "You don't have to disappear." 

"Okay. It just seemed like whatever you needed to think about was mostly about the line on the triangle that's between you and Hardison, not the one between you and me," she says, drawing little diagrams in the air with her hands. She is going to be a very good mastermind. Already is. He's very proud. Even if she keeps thieving the damn profiteroles before he can put them on this tower. 

"Yeah, it probably is," he sighs. 

She stops eating the profiteroles for a second and props her face on her hands, staring at him. "Do you need someone to tell you that it doesn't make you a bad person? Because it doesn't." 

"No," he says, automatically. There's a long list of things that he's done that do make him a bad person. No reason that should be on the list. But maybe he has actually lumped it in with everything else, just a big mess of bad in his brain. "Huh. Maybe." 

"If somebody told you that who you love makes you a bad person, I will taser them," she says. "Happily." 

"That's not necessary," he tells her, firmly, because he doesn't doubt that she means it, and he doesn't want her getting ideas. He should probably feel less...warm, about that. "It just-- wasn't something you were supposed to be," he says. "Especially in my family. I guess it doesn't, though. Make me-- whatever."

"I think things like that just make us, us," she says, shoving her shoulder against his. 

"Really? Somebody very smart must have said that to you," he says, shoving back. 

"Yes," she intones. "A wise old man on a mountain." 

"Watch who you're calling old," he grumbles, but he's smiling a little, and he's going to say something else, but then she pops a profiterole in his mouth instead. He makes a face at her, and then he chews, and then his expression softens. "Mmph." 

"We did a good job," she says. "Better than the ones at the thing in Marseilles. These are delicious." 

"You would know," he says, after he finishes chewing. "You've eaten half of them." 

"Mm. And no regrets," she says merrily. 

"Yeah," he agrees. There are not many profiteroles left to make the rest of this tower be an actual tower, but this is the most he's talked to Parker and the most settled he's felt in a couple of weeks, so he'll take it. "No regrets." 

"I don't know a lot about families expecting things from you," she says. She lays her hand on his arm. "But I know you. I know that you're patient even though you pretend not to be, and you tell me the truth when I ask you things, and you do things other people can't." 

"That means a lot to me, Parker," he says, kissing her forehead, and then holds his hand out. "It would mean even more if you would give me back the edible gold you just took out of my pocket." 

Her expression is sort of a half frown, half grin, and all mischief. "It's shiny," she tells him, handing the container back. "You know I like things that are shiny." 

"Why do you think I left it in the cranberries in the first place?" he teases. 

"I wasn't _just_ trying to steal the gold," she tells him. She scoots closer and rests her head on his shoulder. "I meant what I said." 

"I know," he says, and kisses the top of her head. 

"Also-- maybe I was trying to feel you up a little," she says. 

"I know that too," he tells her. "Your grabass technique could use some work." 

"Hardison's never complained," she pouts. 

"Hardison is too soft on you," he teases. "If you don't get critiques you don't improve." 

"Feel free to demonstrate any time," she says, and knocks her hip against his. 

"Maybe when Hardison comes home," he says, and she hums happily as he adds the last profiterole to the top of the croquembouche. It is, quite frankly, a huge mess, but it tastes good, and the point of making the thing wasn't to make it perfect, anyway. Which, yes, is probably a lesson he should be applying to other parts of his life, come to think of it. "What do you think?" 

"Shiny," she says, assessing the pile. "Chocolatey. I like it. We should take a picture, before I eat all of it." 

"Send it to Hardison," Eliot says, as she wipes off her sticky fingers on a towel and pulls out her phone. "Tell him geek con can't compete with this." 

"I mean, we're here and not there," she says. "So it really didn't stand a chance." 

+

He makes it a point, over the next couple of days, to tell Parker where he's going, if he has to duck out to the brewery for a while, or if he goes for a run, or down to the garage. She seems to appreciate it. And she gives him space, but far less than she has been, which is also nice. He helps her sort through stuff for the new Leverage, and she joins him at the bar and learns to make a few drinks and pour a few rounds. All in all, he feels less disconnected from her, and weirdly, that actually helps with all the rest of it. Parker enjoys his company, so he lets himself enjoy spending time with her. Parker misses Hardison, so he lets himself miss Hardison, too. Things feel more settled, even if there's still a lot to work out. 

The night before Hardison comes home from his nerd convention, she wakes him up in the middle of the night, lurking at the door of his bedroom. It isn't a great idea to sneak up on him while he's out, but he knows it's her-- he knows the sound of their breathing, has heard it in his ears for hours at a stretch almost daily sometimes over the last five years. This sound belongs to Parker. Specifically, it belongs to an upset Parker, who sounds like she's been crying. 

"Parker?" 

"Yeah," she says. Her voice is flat, like a dull knife, and it hurts to hear her like that. "Um. Can I come over there?" 

"Yeah," he agrees, and because it's Parker he doesn't hear her footsteps at all, she just drops onto the mattress beside him a few seconds later. She's definitely been crying-- when she tucks her face briefly against his neck he can feel that her cheeks are still wet-- and instead of just curling into his side and being still, her hands are restless, patting his chest and stomach like she's looking for something. 

Eliot says nothing, just lets her be. He understands. God knows he wakes up like this more often than he'd ever admit to them, desperate to know they're all right, that all his failures were only nightmares and not some horrible truth. He actually called Hardison once after one of the really bad ones, right after they got back from Alaska. It was four in the morning and he'd never been more grateful that Hardison sometimes pulled all-nighters playing his stupid video games, because he'd picked up the phone on the first ring, Eliot could have passed out from sheer relief. He'd grumbled a lot and pretended that it was just a misdial, that he'd been trying to call some girl and hit the wrong button, but he let Hardison babble in his ear for half an hour about nonsense anyway, grateful for every single minute of reassurance he could reasonably wring out of the call before he hung up. 

So, he lets Parker do whatever she needs to do. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't push her hands away, and finally when she seems satisfied that he's all in one piece and breathing fine, she slumps against his side and reaches up to pull his arm tight around her. 

"I just had to make sure," she explains. "Sorry." 

"It's okay," he tells her. "I know from nightmares." 

"Yeah," she nods. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"Wasn't gonna ask," he promises, and she squeezes his arm in thanks. 

"What do you do," she asks after a minute. "When you wake up and you still think it was real?" 

"Used to go out and pick fights," he says. "Or pick up someone." 

"Used to?" 

"Yeah, well," he sighs, tightening his arm around her meaningfully, "things are little different now." 

"Yeah. What do you do now?" 

"Cook," Eliot says. "Do pushups. T'ai chi. Go run. Beat the shit out of heavy bags instead of people. Some nights if it's real bad I do all of those things." 

"Usually I just wake him up," she sighs. 

"You can always wake me up, now," he tells her. "You could have before, too. I wouldn't have cared." 

"Thanks." Her fingers tightened around his arm. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

"A lot of things have happened to me," he reminds her. "I'm still kickin'." 

"But I don't want something to happen to you _because of me_ ," she says, the last of it almost a whisper. "I don't want to make a mistake and you-- I don't want you to be gone." 

He's not sure what to say to that. Things happen. Mistakes get made. The person calling the play doesn't always have all the answers, and he has the utmost faith in her, and so does Hardison, but everybody screws up sometimes. Even them. 

"In my line of work," he says, "I've sort of had to accept that I'm not going to live forever, Parker. That's kind of always hanging over me. Everything could go right on your end and I could still screw up. That ain't your fault." 

"Do you think sometimes it would be easier if we didn't care about each other?" 

"Maybe in some ways," he says. He dips his head and brushes his nose through her hair. "But in a lot of other ways, the ones that I think count more, no. We're better together." 

She's quiet for a long time after that. Eliot waits, and listens, because Parker's silences have different sounds, which is a very Parker way of explaining her, he knows, but well, he has known her for a while now. Some of her weird Parker logic was bound to worm its way into his brain eventually. The current silence is heavy, the silence of a Parker who is weighing something that's on her mind, trying to decide if she should voice it. 

"I don't know if I could do it," she says finally. 

"Do what?" 

"If it was you, or Hardison, in that cave," she says, picking at his shirt. "I don't know if I could leave." 

"Oh," he says, because that's about all anyone can say when they've been punched in the gut. Leave it to Parker to be the one who says she loves you by absolutely taking you out at the knees. 

"I don't know what that means. Does that not make me...me, anymore? And if I'm not, how do I do this job?" 

"Listen to me," he says, picking up one of her hands and holding it very carefully in his own. "Whatever you do? That's who Parker is. You get to change and grow but you don't stop being you. You're still Parker. That's okay. We still trust you."

At this point, he's not sure who he's talking to: Parker, or himself, but she seems satisfied enough with that, and maybe he is too. 

"We change together," she murmurs, squeezing his hand. 

"For better or worse," he agrees, and then they're both quiet for a while. This is a different silence from the one of moments before. This is a comforting Parker silence, and it is actually pretty comforting if you let it be, which is probably the whole point that he needs to be taking away from this, if there is one. He's not real good at accepting comfort. He's working on it. It's a different kind of experience to enjoy. 

"You know, right?" she asks, after a long silence. 

"Know what?" 

"That you love us," she says. "In the _in love_ kind of way. Hardison says it's different from the other way." 

"Yeah, it is," he answers. He takes a breath. Lets it out. "And yeah. I do. Know that." 

"Yeah," she says, and he can feel her smile against his chest. "We love you like that too." 

"I know," he says, as meaningfully as he can manage, but maybe he put a little too much spin on it, because she pulls back and looks up at him, eyebrows raised. 

"Are you making a reference to that space movie that Hardison makes us watch all the time?" she asks, and laughs when he groans. Hardison _really_ has to pick a new series for movie night, he can't be out here quoting Star Wars, even accidentally, he just can't. "I _knew_ you liked that movie." 

"Maybe-- _maybe_ \-- I didn't hate it," he admits. "But you can never tell Hardison I said that. Otherwise he's gonna bug me about dressing up like some kind of space pirate again." 

"That could be nice," she says thoughtfully, and he's pretty sure when she says _nice_ she means _hot_ , and he is not unpacking that in bed with her at 3 a.m. when Hardison is in another time zone. 

"Go back to sleep, Parker." 

"Mm. Maybe I'll dream about punchy space pirates," she says, yawning and patting his chest before she slips out of bed. 

"I am not responding to that," he replies, and her soft laughter trails behind her out the door, which she has left open. 

Maybe ten minutes later, from down the hall, he hears, "Eliot?"

"Yes, Parker," he says. 

"You'd look good in the space pirate pants." 

"Dammit, Parker," he grumbles. "Go to sleep." 

"Hardison agrees with me," she calls. There's a pause, which makes him think she's got Hardison on the phone. "Hmm. Also he says he wants to get a food truck and name it the Grillennium Falcon." 

"Tell him we are not doing that," he yells back. "Either of that!" 

"Hardison says it's a missed opportunity," she calls. 

"The food truck," he asks, staring at the ceiling, "or the pants?" 

"Both," she says, and she must have him on speakerphone now, because Eliot can just make out the faintest bit of Hardison's laughter. 

He rolls out of bed and stalks the short distance down the hall, standing in their open doorway. 

"Yeah, he's here," Parker says, from the bed, and when Eliot holds his hand out, she pitches him the phone. 

"Dammit, Hardison," he says, "I can't manage two different menus and restaurant formats at the same time I'm helping you set up an international syndicate of reformed criminals, and do you even know how difficult it is to turn out consistent, quality food in a mobile kitchen?" 

Hardison's voice, tired but amused, drifts out of the phone speaker. "Okay, but I'm not hearing a no, on the pants." 

"Good night, Hardison," he growls, and hangs up. He walks over and hands her phone back. "I can't fight in tight pants, my pants are a tactical decision, Parker." 

"If you say so," she hums, and when he shakes his head and turns to go, she adds, "Could you just stay, please?" 

"Yeah," he says, like this was a foregone conclusion as soon as he got out of his bed and stomped down the hall, which, he supposes, it was. "Budge over, huh? I'm not taking Hardison's side of the bed." 

"Okay," she says, scooting over to make space for him. He slides in beside her and she snuggles up against him. Her hair tickles at his neck and the sheets smell like her and Hardison and it's extremely comforting, if he ignores the little prickles of desire from the smell of the sheets and the way she's touching him. Parker's arm is slung over his chest, and her nails are sort of idly scratching over his ribs, which would probably be pretty soothing if he weren't also very into it.

"Parker," he says finally, catching her hand, "that's a little distracting right now." 

She makes an inquisitive noise. "Good distracting?" 

"Maybe if Hardison was here too," he sighs. "Then it would be good distracting. We could all be good and distracted, together." 

"Good to know," she says. 

"Is it?" 

"It's a big bed for a reason, Eliot," she yawns, and then, through some kind of Parker magic, she just closes her eyes and falls directly asleep. He's equal parts amazed and envious. He doesn't think he's ever fallen asleep that easily in his life. 

He lies awake for a long, long time, wondering again how long they've been thinking about this, making a plan that included him in case he wanted to be. A few years ago, he probably couldn't have imagined saying yes. Now he can't imagine a world where he says no. 

They pick Hardison up at PDX the next day, and Eliot may not kiss Hardison hello, but he does grab his bag and sling his arm around him while they walk back to the car, and it's something. 

+  
The international part of Leverage, Inc., continues to be a work in progress, just like the brewery rebrand and the whole triangle thing, but in between everything else, they make time to steal a couple of things back for some local folks who need a hand. Parker runs the whole thing like a champ, and when they all get back to the bar and she sits down with their first clients and hands them that check, he's so damn proud of her and how far she's come that he thinks it's possible he might burst. He doesn't know quite what to do with all of that, and their clients are still sitting there two tables away and weeping over Parker, so going over there and just kissing her doesn't seem like a great plan. He could kiss Hardison instead, but someone's bound to notice and it would really ruin Parker's moment, and she deserves to have this one.

"She did good," Hardison says, and Eliot just nods and looks across the table, seeing every bit of the pride he feels for her reflected in Hardison's face, too. Before he can stop himself, he reaches for Hardison's hand where it rests on the table and holds on tight. 

Hardison's hand is warm and his palm is soft and he does not know what he's doing but he doesn't want to let go, either. _Enjoy the experience_ , he tells himself. Pay attention to it. He breathes in. Breathes out. Nothing's on fire, the brewery's bustling along just like normal, and nobody's even looking at them, and even if they were, what would they see? Two guys holding hands. Not that weird for a Pearl District bar in Portland. Not that weird, full stop.  
Hardison meets his eyes and smiles. 

"Ooh," Parker says, sliding in next to Hardison. Behind her, the clients are leaving, still crying happy tears. "Are we holding hands now?" 

"Seems like it," Eliot says. "You want in?" 

"Yep," she answers, then slides one of her hands beneath Hardison's and lays the other one on top of Eliot's. Maybe it is weird, who cares. He just really loves the hell out of these people. "There we go. Perfect." 

Hardison kisses her shoulder. "My thoughts exactly." 

+

On a Friday in early March, they officially re-launch their gastropub-slash-brewery, newly christened _The Fulcrum_. Hardison has done an incredible job marketing everything, so the place is filled to the brim with happy customers, drinking their beer and eating food that Eliot designed. Parker puts on her best no-stabbing face and wanders through the crowd, checking on tables, smiling and shaking hands. A few times Eliot sees her gesture in his direction as she talks with guests, pointing at the food and then at him. He does not hide behind something, but he thinks about it. It's not that he isn't proud. He is. This is just a very weird dream that he seems to be having, where instead of dead and buried from one bad job too many, he is alive and well and probably some kind of gay with a successful restaurant, a not-exactly-criminal enterprise, and two beautiful people who for some reason love him very much and want him in their lives. It is a lot to wrap his head around tonight, so he spends a lot of time in the kitchen. They aren't short-staffed by any means but they are slammed, and that's really the best place for him to be. 

Sometime after dinner service ends and things are dwindling down, Amy flags him down. 

"I'm supposed to give you this," Amy says, handing him a folded note. "And I'm supposed to tell you that this is for fun and not for leverage, whatever that means, so no punching." 

He frowns. That does sound like Parker. "Uh, okay." 

"No idea," Amy says. "You know what I know. And-- congratulations on the relaunch, this was an amazing night." 

"Thanks," he mumbles, and opens the note as she walks away. It's good that he's been instructed in a very Parker way that there is no reason for punching, because the note is vague and unsigned and directs him to be on the roof of the building at 10:30, which is about half an hour away. 

Whatever they have planned, at least he has time to shower. Just in case. 

He showers, he changes, and grabs the elevator that goes to the roof. The doors slide open at 10:30 on the dot, and there are Hardison and Parker, standing in the middle of what looks like an honest to god farm. 

"What-- what is all this," Eliot asks. Over half the roof looks like you could plant rowcrops on it, and there's a big greenhouse, too, right on the side of the building he's probably least likely to see, if he happened to look up from outside. 

"Welcome to The Fulcrum's very own farm," Hardison says, gesturing around the rooftop. "It's a green roof, at least mostly, but we've also got some containers, we got a greenhouse, with our very own hydroponics system." 

"I don't-- how did you-- when did you-- oh." 

He thinks back to a few weeks ago, Hardison telling him that the guys on the roof were there to install solar panels or some nonsense. Parker jumping up right after to go for a midday run, and coming in sweaty a lot of other afternoons, like she'd been running again. Conned by his own people. How about that. 

"How am I doing with agriculture now, huh?" Hardison grins. 

"This still doesn't make up for Laos," Parker tells him.

"Or Alberta," Eliot says, but he's smiling, and when Parker holds out her hand, he steps up and takes it. Hardison steps up to his other side and holds out his phone. 

"Look, you can run this whole thing directly from your phone, I built the app myself. You can check the temperature in every greenhouse and in the water, you can check the water circulation, the pH level, there's cameras on everything. And because I designed it, it's fully integrated with the software we use for ordering supplies." 

"You have to tell him the other thing," Parker says, reaching behind Eliot to poke Hardison's arm. 

"I was getting to that," Hardison insists, but clearly not quickly enough for her liking. 

"This isn't about cutting out our suppliers," Parker says. 

"Yeah, man, we got you, we know supporting local farms is important. But we've been noticing lately that sometimes they run out of stuff, or we can't get what we need, and we know it messes with your menu, so-- now, once we get some stuff growing up here, you've got a backup plan." 

"And if we have too much food the shelter down the street can always use it," Parker adds, squeezing his hand. 

"We didn't order any plants or anything yet--" Hardison pauses to look at Parker, who has looked away a little too shiftily. "Parker, we didn't order any plants yet, did we?" 

"There... are some tomatoes," she admits. "What? I like food now." 

"We agreed-- Do you know how many kinds of tomatoes there are? I mean, I don't, but he probably does," Hardison says. 

"There are over three thousand heirloom varieties of tomatoes in active cultivation," Eliot says, and they both look at him with a lot of love and a lot of awe and it's a little overwhelming, but not as much as it might have been a few months ago. "What? Nightshades are prolific. I couldn't name every one of 'em, but I can tell you that much." 

"See?" Hardison says, and Parker shrugs. 

"What did you buy?" Eliot asks. 

"Something called a _Oaxacan jewel_ ," she says, with more oomph in the word Oaxacan than was strictly necessary, and he and Hardison both grin. 

"Did you buy that one because it had jewel in the name?" Hardison asks, and she nods vigorously. 

"She could have done worse," Eliot offers. "It's a decent beefsteak tomato. Nice acid content, decently sweet, usually a pretty solid bicolored fruit without a lot of problems growing it, too." 

"Okay, but how do you know that?" Hardison asks. 

"It's a very distinctive tomato," he mutters, and it's Parker and Hardison's turn to share a grin. He ignores them. "You know, speaking of Oaxaca, I know this great chef from Mexico City who specializes in Oaxacan cuisine, maybe she'd be willing to come do a guest spot in the Fulcrum's kitchen. We can get mezcal in for cocktails and cheese for appetizers, really showcase her food, it'll be a whole thing." 

"Like a pop-up," Hardison says, nodding. Eliot can see the gears turning in his head, already fitting together a plan for how to take Eliot's idea and make the business side of it work. Hardison is just really damn beautiful when he's thinking-- well, all the time-- and it's a relief to have that thought and not immediately be jolted out of it by some weird bullshit that isn't his and never was. It's not entirely gone, but it's definitely less present. That's comforting. "Culinary spotlights. I can market the hell out of that." 

"And I will...enjoy the food," Parker says, but then she taps her lips thoughtfully and stares into space like she's cracking some invisible safe that only she can see, a look that Eliot is starting to think is going to be her mastermind look. "And who knows, might be good cover for some of our international jobs. I'll think about it." 

Eliot looks between the two of them. Probably nobody deserves to be loved this much, and him least of all. 

"Is this really all mine?" he asks. 

"If you want it," Hardison says gently. 

"Uh, we hope you do, this was a lot of work, that greenhouse fought back," Parker says, and Hardison clears his throat. "What? Oh, right, the other thing. Yeah. What he said. Metaphors are hard." 

"Maybe we can do a little less talking in metaphors, then," Eliot suggests. 

He kisses Hardison's cheek first, and then Parker's, and they hold hands as they wander over the rooftop, showing him everything they bought and listening to all his plans for it, and not once does he have to remind himself to enjoy any of it. 

+

"This is now officially date night," Parker declares when they come back down from the roof. Three champagne flutes are lined up on the coffee table. She's carrying a bottle of champagne, and drops onto the couch, tugging Eliot down next to her so he's sandwiched between her and Hardison, who is already sitting there. He's pretty sure that this is some kind of plan that they have, because they've been on either side of him all night, but Hardison has his arm stretched out behind him and Parker has thrown her legs over his lap, and he's warm and happy, so he can't say that he has a mind to complain. 

Hardison pops the champagne and passes a glass to each of them. "To the successful launch of our very own gastropub," he says. 

"To Leverage, Incorporated: International," Parker says. 

"To us," Eliot says simply, and they drink. 

"Does this mean I can start telling people I have two boyfriends?" Parker asks, setting her glass on the table. "I mean, I don't talk about my life to a lot of people who aren't you, so maybe Alice White has two boyfriends, but--" 

"You are Alice White," Eliot and Hardison say together. 

"I know," she says. "So?" 

"I mean, personally I'm cool with it," Hardison says. He brushes Eliot's arm with his fingertips. "But I'm not going to speak for you. Labels can be challenging." 

"There are some labels that I think are going to be a little harder to come by, if they ever do," he admits, but he leans into Hardison's touch when he says it. "But yeah, Parker, I think you have two boyfriends. And math isn't my strong suit, but I think that also means that Hardison has one boyfriend." 

"Who, just to clarify, is you," Hardison says. "Right?" 

"Yes, me," he says, jerking his thumb towards his own chest. "You see any other guys sitting around here, pledging their life to the two of you?" 

"I hope not," Parker says. "I don't need more than two boyfriends." 

"Thank you, Parker," Eliot says, and she smiles up at him. 

"I hate to be this way," Hardison says, "because I get it, I do, man, but could you just actually say--" 

"Hardison, you are my goddamn boyfriend," he growls. "And I'm very happy about it!" 

"Well okay then," Hardison chuckles. "Thank you, baby." 

"You're welcome," he grumbles, and looks at Parker. "You good? You need me to say it, too?" 

"I'm fine," she says. "I'm just glad we're all together." 

"Another successful job, huh," Eliot says, poking her shin. 

"No idea what you mean," she says, wide-eyed. 

"Uh huh," he says. "How long exactly were you two planning all of this? How did that conversation even go? _Let's go steal an Eliot_?" 

"See," Parker says, nudging Hardison with her foot. "I told you it was a good suggestion." 

"I told her we couldn't say that," he explains. 

"Hmm," Eliot says, and drains his glass. 

Hardison shrugs. "We came out here to look at a couple of places. I was actually pretty sold on this other space, but we just kept picking it apart once we looked at it. The kitchen was like, way small, and it didn't have garage space--" 

"It didn't have space for you," Parker says. "We kind of said it at the same time." 

"Then we just sort of...I'm not gonna say we made a _plan_ ," Hardison says. 

"I will," Parker tells them. "I will say it. We very much made a plan." 

"Oh," he says, because he knew, but it's a lot different to hear them say it. 

"We made space for you. It's an equilateral triangle, man," Hardison says. "We all have to matter equally, or--" 

Eliot leans over and kisses him, right on the mouth, finally, because dammit, it's not like it doesn't count if you kiss a guy anywhere but the mouth, and also he just really, really needs to kiss Hardison right now and has for a while and is really tired of not doing it. It's a little more desperate than he wants it to be, but it also feels right, and when he eventually pulls back the look Hardison gives him is just pure unadulterated pride that he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve, but he doesn't get a chance to dwell on that for very long.

"My turn," Parker says, and without any more warning than that she twists herself around so that she's sitting in Eliot's lap, knee on either side of his hips and her arms around his shoulders. 

"Hi," she says, smiling her most delighted Parker smile. 

"Hi, yourself," Eliot answers, and he's gonna try to say something else that's a little more suited to the moment, only he can't, because she takes his face very gently in her hands and kisses him. 

He isn't sure what he expected. Maybe he thought she'd be bolder, kiss the way she jumps off buildings, all wild exhilaration and demands for thrills, but this is not like that at all. This is the other side of the world from that. It's delicate and exploratory and not a single person in his life has ever kissed him so carefully. Who would? It's his job to be durable, roll with the punches, take the punishment. Nobody needs to handle him like he's fragile, unless it's because they think he's a bomb. But here is Parker, kissing him like if she isn't careful, he is the one who will break instead of being the one doing the breaking, and it's so startling and unexpected that he forgets absolutely everything else. When she finally pulls back from him he actually _sighs_ , this soft little sound that he didn't even know he was capable of making anymore, but when he blinks in surprise Parker just smiles and kisses his forehead, unfazed and unsurprised. He doesn't know whether to cry or be turned on or both, while Parker, bless her, just looks over at Hardison and says, "I told you people were like locks." 

"Yeah, you did, baby," Hardison murmurs, and Eliot would very much like to look at him and know what his face looks like, because he sounds sort of equally awed and turned on, and that's got to be a pretty goddamn hot combination of emotions on Hardison, but whatever magic Parker works on locks has absolutely worked on him, and he cannot make himself look away from her face. 

"Parker," he finally manages to say, and it's right that she's the new brains, because she knows exactly what he means without any need for him to explain. She smiles and cups his cheek and turns his face toward Hardison, who thankfully does not kiss him like he is made of spun glass, because that kind of tenderness from both of them at this moment would probably have undone him completely. The kiss is hesitant for about ten seconds, Eliot gripping the back of Hardison's head trying desperately to telegraph to him that _yes, I mean this, so fucking kiss me for real already_ , and then suddenly Hardison is kissing him in a way that makes it very clear the first ten seconds had nothing to do with hesitation and everything to do with trying to find the best way to take Eliot apart. He's damn good at it, too, and he can tell that Hardison knows just how good he is from the way he smiles against Eliot's lips. 

Eliot really has to remember that they are still thieves, and they may not be stealing anything but they are still very good at finding ways into even the most heavily armored places. Doesn't matter if it's a vault or his heart. They'll find a way in if they want one, and as far as he's concerned, they can take anything they find. Might even be something good. He doesn't know how they managed it, but these strange people who are so baffling to him some of the time have somehow found something he thought he sacrificed a long time ago, something tender and delicate and so elusive that Eliot himself barely knows how to track it down. It's why he cooks, it's why he stayed with this crew in the beginning, just to feel that again, to find that fleeting something inside himself again that he can remotely pretend might be _good_ , and try like hell to keep it alive for even a moment. He has never once managed to do that on his own for very long, but now he has Parker, and he has Hardison, and maybe this time he can hang onto good for a while. 

The next time, Parker does kiss him like she is leaping off of a building, and Hardison kisses him maybe not like he's delicate, exactly, but like he matters, and for a while after that there's a lot less kissing, a lot fewer clothes, and if this what he has to look forward to for the rest of his life he is going to find a way to live forever. 

After everybody catches their breath again, Parker declares that it's too warm with both of them and slithers off the couch to lay on the floor, stark naked, looking very pleased with herself, which honestly she should be. He already knew she was bendy, but goddamn. 

Hardison bumps his shoulder. "How you doin'?" 

"Fuckin' fantastic," he mumbles. He closes his eyes and smiles. "Hell of a lot better than a potluck." 

"What now?" Hardison says. 

"Don't worry about it," he says, patting Hardison's leg. "We're good." 

"Yes, I'm _very_ good," Hardison drawls. "For a second there I thought she fried your brain with that kiss and didn't leave me any, though." 

"It was a very distinctive kiss," Eliot says, and turns his head to look at Hardison, who smiles knowingly back. "And don't act like you haven't had the experience." 

"Oh, this particular lock got picked a _long_ time ago," he replies. 

"Yeah it did," Parker mumbles from the floor. Her hand comes up and slaps ineffectively at Hardison's knee. She slaps at Eliot's, too. "Sorry we basically had to con you into being our boyfriend. I'm not actually sorry." 

"Yeah well," he says, patting her hand, "maybe sometimes you need some pretty heavy ammunition to get through a brick wall." 

"Brick wall?" Parker asks. 

"More like _brick house_ , am I right?" Hardison said, looking Eliot up and down and wiggling his eyebrows. He holds up his hand. "My man." 

"I am not high fiving that," Eliot says, as Hardison tries to get Parker to give him a high five instead, and she just stares up at him with the face she always makes when someone's references don't quite register. "No? Nothing? Seriously, you're both leaving me hanging right now?" 

Parker frowns. "I don't-- I mean, this is a brick building, but do we have a brick house too?" 

Hardison stutters through an explanation that only confuses Parker more, and Eliot doesn't even bother to try and hide his grin. 

+

Six months later, a heavy envelope made of expensive linen weave arrives in the mail. Addressed in pristine, precise calligraphy to _Mme. Parker & Mssrs. Alec Hardison & Eliot Spencer_, the gold-filigreed invitation inside requests the honor of their presence at the nuptials of two people none of them have ever heard of. Tucked inside, carefully hidden between the invitation and all the frou frou layers of paper attached to it is a short personal note in handwriting they all recognize immediately as Sophie's. 

"Well," says Hardison, "I guess that solves the mystery of whether or not they knew." 

"Guess so," says Eliot. "Good job, Parker." 

"I really love being right," Parker smiles, but then her phone beeps, and she jumps off the counter. "We have to go brief the new teams." 

"Right behind you, mama," Hardison says. 

Eliot sticks the note on the fridge and follows them out. 

_Well done._

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my wife, [ leiascully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully), for falling down a Leverage hole with me, for holding my hand and talking me through this piece, and for coming up with Den of Thieves, the best Belgian trippel in all of fictional Portland. 
> 
> Also, bless canons with canonically competent cooks; I've made every dish mentioned in this piece and probably have a recipe for all of them somewhere. Drop a line if you want one!


End file.
